


Better Living through Cannibalism

by autoschediastic



Category: Adam Lambert (Musician)
Genre: Halloween, M/M, Zombie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-19
Updated: 2010-10-19
Packaged: 2017-10-12 18:47:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/127923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/autoschediastic/pseuds/autoschediastic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are a dozen things that Tommy Joe Ratliff, about to climb naked into the open grave of his life-challenged rockstar boyfriend on the eve of his thirtieth birthday, should be thinking about.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Better Living through Cannibalism

There are a dozen things that Tommy Joe Ratliff, about to climb naked into the open grave of his life-challenged rockstar boyfriend on the eve of his thirtieth birthday, should be thinking about. What they're going to do if this works, for example, which is one of those questions where the answer doesn't matter so much as the question itself. More worryingly, what they're going to do if this doesn't work, which is a question Tommy is very firmly denying exists. The possibility of someone calling the cops after the racket Adam made with the miniature backhoe should be pretty high up there on the list.

But mostly, as he's watching Adam, already down in the ground fussily picking splinters out of his coffin's satiny lining, all Tommy's really thinking about is how fucking lucky he is.

"This is so fucked up," Adam says, nose wrinkled at the dirt smudged on his hands. He goes to wipe them off on his jeans before he remembers they're in a crumpled heap with Tommy's somewhere near his tombstone.

"Yeah," Tommy says, his grin so broad his face hurts. There are ten million freckles on the curve of Adam's bare shoulder, and after this is over, when it's all done and the world goes back to spinning, he's going to lick every single last fucking one of them. And then, he thinks, pretty fucking accurately given his current situation freezing his balls off in the middle of a fucking graveyard, _Life is pretty fucking weird._

*

They'd all made jokes about Adam running himself into the ground. After Glam Nation, he dove headfirst into the studio, cranked out an album that made the hairs on Tommy's arms stand on end, and launched straight into a promo tour. Tommy laughed and called him crazy, ready to follow him to the ends of the earth with hearts in his eyes.

When it happened, when Adam just fucking collapsed in Portugal three steps off the stage, Tommy wouldn't believe it. He wailed and moaned and made a huge fucking spectacle of himself, not even caring because this shit wasn't funny. At the funeral, he called Adam a fucking bastard for leaving him, for chickening out on the media shit-storm spinning around some stupid tabloid article about them coming out as a couple, and punched Monte in the face when Monte hauled him off the coffin.

After, Tommy locked himself in Adam's house, ignored the phone when it rang, the banging on the front door, the emails and tweets and everything that wasn't Adam. He combed YouTube, saving every performance, every interview, watched them until his eyes burned and then watched some more. He drank until he passed out, crying into empty bottles, ended up dehydrated and aching and did it all over again the next day. On the third night after the funeral, the sixth after Adam died and right before Tommy passed out again, he thought, _This is gonna fucking kill me_. He felt a twinge of guilt about it, wondered if the grocery store would deliver a case of tequila, and woke up at ten past three in the morning hanging halfway off the sofa with Adam crouched by his head, smoothing his hair back from his face and smiling a sad, broken little smile.

"Holy fucking Christ," Tommy slurred.

*

"Drink that," Adam said, plunking a steaming mug of coffee on the breakfast bar.

Since there was currently more booze in Tommy's system than in the entire state of Texas, he figured he could be cut a little slack for being slow on the uptake. The fourth time he reached out to poke Adam's nose, though, testing the solidity of this new and questionable reality, Adam sighed. Adam might have been cool to the touch, but he was there, so very there, fucking gorgeous in the glaring overhead lights and not wafting away on a fevered dream-haze.

"Oh fuck yeah," Tommy said, listing closer, skirting dangerously close to the edge of his stool. "You're not dead."

"Sorta, anyway," Adam said, with a long-suffering air, like maybe he'd said it seventeen times already. "Please drink your coffee, okay?"

"You," Tommy said again, because he liked the sound of it, and would probably never get tired of saying it, with a big goofy smile on his face, "are not dead. You fucker, you aren't dead."

Adam's mouth did that weird slanted downturned thing he did in interviews that meant he wasn't really pleased with the thrust of the conversation. "I woke up without a pulse on top of my grave picking dirt out of my teeth, I think it's safe to say I'm dead."

"Undead!" Tommy declared, sitting bolt upright. The stool wobbled precariously, much like his grip on reality. "My fucking zombie boyfriend, oh fuck yeah, gimme a kiss," and he grabbed clumsily at the wrinkled, dirt-stained collar of Adam's shirt.

Adam caught his arm and a shudder went through Tommy, crack-addict jitter. There hadn't been time for anything but a short, sweet kiss before the show in Portugal. It'd made the performance that much more charged, both of them hopped up on anticipation. The audience had loved it. Tommy had loved it, savouring the hot rush of blood every time Adam touched him, and then, after, for days and days, he'd been so sure he'd never feel that again.

"Tommy," Adam began, but Tommy shook his head, stumbled off the stool. Arms came up to catch him and he sank into Adam's bulk, the raw earth smell clinging to the suit they'd buried him in.

"So fucking what," Tommy said, and distantly heard the catch in his voice, felt the tears burning tracks down his cheeks, "so fucking what if you're fucking room-temperature. You think I give a shit? You seriously think I give a fucking shit? Fucking son of a bitch, I-"

And that's when Adam kissed him. Later, Tommy would admit it was a little weird kissing somebody only lukewarm, and there was a smell, this strange, not-Adam smell trying to horn in on his good time, but none of that registered right at that moment. All he knew was that Adam was kissing him the same as Adam had always kissed him when it'd been too long since--rough and demanding, desperate--and Tommy held on for literal dear fucking life.

*

For Adam, those six days never happened. Over Tommy's third cup of coffee, he explained how he'd flaked out after the concert and came to on top of a shuddering mound of earth, bleary and dazed and wondering what the hell kind of after party that had been. Once he'd figured out where he was, and that he didn't have anything on him, not even a quarter for a payphone, all there had been to do was trudge his way home. He'd started freaking out somewhere between picking grass out of his hair and finding out he didn't have a pulse anymore, but then since it hadn't seemed like it'd actually be productive, he decided not to bother. Adam was practical like that.

"And I'm not even tired," Adam finished. "That's kind of cool."

"Fucking awesome," Tommy said, pushing against the scrape of Adam's nails through his hair. They were flopped out in Adam's messy bed, his head on Adam's chest. He felt mostly sober, a combination of an entire carafe of coffee sloshing around in his belly and the pointed lack of a heartbeat beneath his ear. "I hope you don't rot."

Adam frowned thoughtfully. Immediately, Tommy had the urge to kiss him. Adam would fucking _blink_ and Tommy wanted to kiss him. And since he really couldn't come up with a good reason why not, he clambered on up to do just that, recataloguing the way Adam's mouth felt against his, how Adam nipped at his lip before taking over, the electric zing when Adam licked his tongue, sucked it a little.

Between kisses, Tommy said, "We are so fucking right now," and started yanking at Adam's belt.

Adam made a startled noise in Tommy's mouth. Tommy ignored it, blocking Adam's attempts to pull back, and then, once he got his hand inside Adam's pants, said, "Oh."

"No pulse," Adam said, and seriously, he really had to move on. Tommy was so over it.

Still, this new lack of development below the waist gave Tommy pause, mostly because he wasn't sure what to do with an Adam that couldn't get it up. Talk about the world spinning off its axis. Then he said, "Whatever, finger me while I jack off or something," not really seeing a problem there until the open-mouthed shock on Adam's face registered. "What, is that too weird or something? Is this gonna be a whole fucking situation? Because baby, it so doesn't matter to me." He petted Adam's soft cock affectionately. Still as pretty as the first time he'd hauled it out for a good, hard sucking.

"I, uh," Adam said, obviously trying to figure out a way to voice concerns that didn't hold up to a liberal application of reason. His forehead crinkled adorably. "You don't think this is weird?"

Tommy rolled his eyes. His threshold for weird had already been pretty fucking high. What was a zombie glamrock boyfriend after falling headfirst into his Twitter feed?

"Right," Adam said, and ruffled a hand through his hair. "Okay. Go for it, I guess."

"Fuckin' A," Tommy said, and utilising the powers of the truly, desperately hard up for it, fused their mouths together while stripping them both naked. He wasn't one to hold back under normal circumstances, and though he wasn't actively thinking about it, the fact that this could be their last fuck (again) ever was lurking like a sicko with poisoned candy at the edges of his brain, so he said, "I fucking love you, get the lube," and, "Always wanted to suck you soft, you giant fucker," and, "Fuck, _fuck_ , I missed you, you have no fucking idea, die on me again and I'll fucking kill you."

Adam had this dazed, shell-shocked look on his face the entire time, like somehow he'd forgotten what it was like to have Tommy moving over him, riding his fingers and humping his thigh like a teenager. When he could get words out, they were mostly, "I know, baby," and, "I'm sorry," and shit like that, which wasn't what Tommy wanted, so Tommy bit him, _hard_ , teeth digging into his throat, breaking skin. Adam gasped, nothing but reflex when he didn't need to breathe anymore, and all of seven minutes after they'd started, Tommy came so hard he saw entire fucking constellations explode on the backs of his eyelids.

After, as Tommy lay there panting with Adam's hand stroking down his back, fighting back more tears because he was tired of crying, okay, really fucking sick of it, Adam said, "Wow," quiet and floored. Tommy started laughing instead, laughing so hard he couldn't stop, not even when he started to fucking cry again anyway.

*

Dead silence woke Tommy. He'd always had trouble sleeping alone, too used to life with roommates, then life on tour, then life with Adam heaving like a fucking bellows beside him all damn night. The first thing he'd done when he'd stumbled in through the door after bailing on Adam's stupid fucking funeral was turn the television on, flicking it over to some foreign channel he couldn't understand and turning it down to a low murmur so he wouldn't accidentally catch something he couldn't deal with hearing. It hadn't been off it since.

But now it was quiet. The air was hushed and heavy, thick, making the skin on the back of Tommy's neck crawl. Face smushed halfway into the pillow, he took a slow, careful breath and did that really fucking annoyingly awesome thing they did in horror movies where the protagonist looked oh so slowly up to find the big bad crouched beside the bed, about to eat somebody's face off.

Tommy's own personal big bad was actually in the bed, propped up on a mound of pillows with a hand curled close to Tommy's mouth, and he didn't look so much like faces where high on the craving menu. Adam's fingers twitched when Tommy breathed out in partial relief and partial _hey, oxygen, always good_. The sliver of light from the bedside clock glinted off Adam's eyes, cat-like, and Tommy considered that maybe Adam could see in the dark.

"S'fuckin' creepy," Tommy mumbled.

Weirdly detached, Adam said, "I can't sleep."

Scrubbing drool off on the pillow, Tommy flopped over onto his back. He wriggled closer until Adam's arm lifted and he could scoot in under it, his head on Adam's shoulder, his hand on Adam's thigh. Tommy always fucking froze to death if he didn't put on some clothes while sleeping, even with Adam the furnace sharing the same bed, and sometimes Adam didn't bother, sometimes he did--it never made a difference, he always ran hot. Sitting on top of the covers, bare-ass naked, Adam was fucking glacial. He didn't seem to notice.

"Get in," Tommy said, sleep like gravel in his voice, and tugged at the duvet. "Fucking freezin'."

Ignoring him, Adam brought his fingers back up to hover over Tommy's lips, a dim shadow in the dark, so close Tommy felt the lack of their touch crackling in the distance between.

"What're you-"

Adam shivered. "Breathe for me."

Nerves sparked to jittery life in Tommy's belly. He wet his lips and took another cautious breath. The rush of seeing Adam again hadn't faded, but the fucked-up reality of it had finally sunk in. The _really_ fucked up thing about it was it didn't come even fucking close to killing the sleepy boner Tommy was sporting. If anything, when he let air ghost over Adam's fingers and Adam moaned, it just woke the hell up.

Tommy said, "Y'like that, zombie boy?" and rolled over, one leg flung over Adam's to snug his dick right up against Adam's thigh. He brushed kisses along Adam's shoulder, less about lips and tongue for once and more about the push of air along Adam's skin. When he got to Adam's mouth, he paused, sucked down a big lungful and fit their mouths together like they taught in CPR classes. He breathed out strong and slow, feeling Adam's chest rise beneath his as it filled with breath warmed in his own lungs.

"Fuck," Adam said, his grip on Tommy's back tightening. "Do it again?"

"Pretty kinky," Tommy said between brief, nuzzling kisses, "kinda like an extreme breathplay thing," and did it again, and again, light-headed and turned-on and so not interested in sleep anymore.

And when it turned out Adam had meant he _didn't_ sleep, that he couldn't anymore, all Tommy heard was an opportunity to make up for lost time.

*

Two days later, Adam stood in front of the bathroom mirror frowning at the mark still raw on his throat. He pulled at the torn edges, watching it gape bloodlessly, and frowned harder. "See?"

"Huh," Tommy croaked. Between his week-long drinking binge, the seriously impressive number of orgasms he'd had since Adam came back, and despite the glasses of water Adam kept shoving at him, he was flirting spectacularly with prolonged dehydration. "Crazy glue."

Adam made a face, defensively covering the small wound with one hand.

"No, seriously," Tommy said, and nudged Adam's hand aside to get a better look at it. As far as they could tell, Adam was perfectly fine, except for the whole technically deceased thing. While there didn't seem to be much of an issue with infection, there were bugs and shit out there that ate the dead. Adam didn't exactly smell like carrion--he didn't have much of a smell at all anymore, not since he'd showered off the lingering stink of funeral home--but Tommy would rather not take chances. "Quit picking at it. It's like a torn seam, man, just gonna get worse if you do."

Adam poked it again, hard, and scowled.

Tommy winced. "I'm gonna go get the fucking glue."

"It doesn't hurt," Adam said, wriggling his pinky nail into one of the tiny holes, and okay, that was a little gross. "I can't feel it very much at all anymore."

Slowly, Tommy backtracked from the hallway. Maybe he should've considered the implications of zombie-hood beyond permanent removal of the gag reflex. "What d'you mean, you can't feel it?" With a rapidly rising sense of _oh fuck no_ , fuelled by a lifetime of horror and noir and freaky gothic tales, he grabbed up Adam's hand, laced their fingers together and squeezed. "You can feel that, right?" he asked, and meant, _You can feel me_.

"Maybe," Adam said, an uncertain, unfamiliar lilt to his voice. "I know what it's supposed to feel like." Focusing intently on Tommy's hand, like it was a fucking Rubik's cube or something he had to solve in ten minutes or less, he squeezed back. Tentatively at first, then all of a sudden way too hard, the tips of Tommy's fingers flushing a deep, angry red. Too late Tommy tried to hold back a sharp grunt of pain, and Adam's gaze shot up, wide, panicked. "Shit," he hissed, cradling Tommy's hand to his chest, "shit, I'm sorry, _shit_."

"Whatever," Tommy said, seriously unable to care even an iota less about his stupid hand. Adam without a heartbeat was one thing. Adam without orgasms was another. Adam, touch-hungry, affectionate Adam, without the ability to feel was a whole fucking other universe of severely fucked up shit that Tommy couldn't even begin to wrap his head around.

*

While Adam was content to spend the rest of the day moping over almost breaking Tommy's fingers, Tommy decided he couldn't deal with all this undead shit on an empty stomach. Food hadn't really been a priority since he'd gotten back, leaving the kitchen a barren wasteland, but some digging unearthed a hunk of half-mouldy cheese from the far recesses of the fridge. By the time he shaved all the fungus off, there wasn't much left, and when the knife slipped, slicing an inch-long gash along his index finger, he thought, _Doesn't it just fucking figure_.

Running his hand under icy cold water slowed the bleeding to a sluggish crawl. It wasn't deep, more like a really vicious paper-cut than anything. The second he tried to pat it dry, though, red soaked straight through the paper towel.

"Tommy?" Adam called, footsteps thudding quickly down the stairs. "What are you making, that smells fucking delicious," and if the fact that Adam hadn't even mentioned food in the entire three days of his zombie existence wasn't enough to get alarm bells sounding, the ravenous look on his face when he rounded the corner into the kitchen sure as hell was.

"Uh," Tommy said, and gestured feebly with both hands, one wrapped firmly over the paper towel wadded up against the other.

Freezing in place, Adam said, "Fuck."

They stood there for a long, long minute, Tommy wondering if he was honestly about to be eaten in a definitely un-sexy way in the hilariously appropriate middle of the fucking kitchen, Adam's expression fluctuating between horrified and fascinated, while somewhere one of their phones was buzzing really fucking loudly with unread text messages. Or maybe that last one was just in Tommy's head.

"I," Adam said, and stopped, licked his lips. Under normal circumstances, or perhaps slightly less abnormal ones, that would've been Tommy's cue to run for the fucking hills. Instead, he sort of shrank back against the counter, the tap still running, and thought about what it would be like to be cannibalised by Adam fucking Lambert. Would Adam would really chow down on him, or just take a few chunks for the road? Or after the first few bites, maybe Adam would come back to himself, whisper apologies between sweet little kisses and hold him until he woke up as a zombie, too. Somewhere in the back of his mind he considered that in the next five minutes, he could be single-handedly responsible for an actual zombie apocalypse, and didn't really feel all that guilty about it. Maybe zombies like, mated for unlife or something. That wouldn't be so bad.

"Tommy," Adam groaned, wrecked and ruined and tortured, pretty obviously trying to keep his distance and failing spectacularly, which produced what Tommy thought of as a decent interpretation of a zombie shamble. When Tommy gave a mental shrug and unwrapped his hand, held it up like an offering, Adam made this amazingly inhuman sound of pure fucking need. If Tommy hadn't heard it before when he'd had Adam's cock wedged down his throat, he might've panicked for real, but then again, maybe not.

Gingerly, Adam took his hand, stared at it, stared at it some more, and startled like a spooked cat when Tommy blurted, "Would you just fucking like, suck it already?" He didn't have all fucking day here. If Adam got a fucking move on, he could be a zombie in time for this birthday.

Adam shuddered and swooped down, taking Tommy's finger into his mouth all the way to the knuckle. Finally done with pussying around, he started sucking right away, these long, hard pulls where Tommy could see his throat work. It actually kind of hurt, like, _a lot_ , but then so had a ton of other things in Tommy's life. On a comparison scale of ouch-my-toe to soul-ripped-out-his-ass, it barely registered a two.

And Adam was making these noises, these happy, so fucking horny ones that Tommy's dick really liked to hear, so he slung an arm around Adam's waist, hauled him in closer. With a ragged groan Adam let go of his wrist to slap both hands on his ass, shove him up on the counter, wedging his knees wide to settle in snug between them. The whole time he kept on sucking, tongue pushing at the edges of Tommy's cut, encouraging the blood to flow faster. Any second, Tommy knew, his insides all tied up in a quivering, anticipatory knot, Adam would bite. Any fucking second.

Instead, Adam pulled away, said, "Oh, fuck, baby, you taste so good," and surged up to kiss him, mouth full of a sharp, ferrous tang.

"The fuck?" Tommy slurred around Adam's tongue. He'd practically fucking sliver-plattered his ass, what the fuck was this shit?

But Adam was in his own little world, moaning, "Feels so good," as he ran his hands down Tommy's body, back up under his shirt, yanking and tugging until Tommy lifted both arms to let him haul it off. He nuzzled at the crook of Tommy's neck, all ticklish nipping kisses that had Tommy's heart trying to crack through his ribcage. "God, I want to fuck you so bad. You're so fucking hot, I wanna make you scream again, just, _god_."

A vicious spike of lust drove the very last scrap of reason out of Tommy's head. He groped for a handhold as Adam shucked his jeans and then groped for Adam's, so very on board with this startling, shiny new plan. But by the time he'd gotten into them, fucking logic had slunk back, slapping him upside the head with a handful of Adam's limp dick.

"Fuck!" Adam exploded, fist slamming into the granite counter, and Tommy said, "Wait, fuck, maybe we could get you like, a fucking infusion or something," and god motherfucking damn it, he wasn't going to cry again, not after everything they'd been through, not over something really fucking stupid like Adam wanting to dick him and not being able to.

Feeling seriously helpless, and pissed off about it but honestly, mostly helpless, Tommy cuddled into Adam, face tucked in the crook of his neck, arms and legs clamped as tightly around him as he could manage. He kissed the flutter of Adam's absent pulse, his favourite thing to do after Adam had come and was winding down, holding him close, all restless hands and dirty praises, and it took a bit longer than it should, but eventually he noticed the skin beneath his lips was whole, unbroken.

"Adam," he said, muffled, because Adam was holding on just as hard, "Adam, fucking hell, look."

"What," Adam mumbled, sad and grumpy and holy fuck, Tommy loved him so fucking much it was seriously a danger to his health. Like, literally. Not really interested in anything but a good sulk, Adam touched his neck. He tried feeling around for whatever the hell it was he thought Tommy was talking about, and then surprise broke like the sunrise through his frown. "Holy shit."

"Oh hell yeah," Tommy said, "Bitch, I healed you. Take that, zombie Jesus."

Adam started at him for a slow-beat pause, all shock and awe, and then his face crumpled and he practically fucking wailed, "Oh, god, what if I, Tommy, what if I'd eaten you? Oh my god, what if I suddenly have an irresistible craving for your flesh and I try to eat you, I could've tried to eat you, Tommy Joe, and you were going to let me!" his voice shooting up several octaves, piteous and despairing and kind of like a third-grade production of _Hamlet_.

Absently, and after noticing yet again that Adam had a tendency to overuse names in the middle of freak-outs, as if that added appropriate gravity to the situation, Tommy said, "You think an arm would do it? No, wait. Shit. I love you, but I'd fucking miss being able to play. How about a thigh? You're way more of a leg man, anyway."

"Do _what_!" Adam barked, apparently kind of pissed Tommy had cut him off mid dramatic monologue.

"Bring you back to life!" Tommy shouted back, flailing his arms in what he thought was a suitably histrionic manner, given the state of things. "If a drop of blood is all it takes to make you feel like that again, I'm okay with giving up a stupid fucking leg!"

A lot like a toddler faced with a crying adult, Adam abruptly shut the hell up. After a few seconds of silence, he said, with total fucking conviction, "You are so fucking crazy."

*

Later, after they'd moved to the couch so Tommy could properly cuddle Adam into submission, if not total agreement on the whole better living through cannibalization plan, Tommy, his head propped up on Adam's thigh with Adam's fingers running lazily through his hair, flirted with the idea of a well-deserved nap. Zombie keeping was hard fucking work, and dead or not, Adam made an awesome pillow. The _tap-tap-tap_ of Adam's thumb on his iPhone was soothing, bringing him back to their earliest days together when Adam had been one of the best friends he'd ever met, long before he'd been swept up off his feet, so sure he'd never crash back down.

A frown in his voice, Adam said, "You should call Monte back. He's trying my phone now."

Probably because Tommy had wrestled Adam's phone from him snarling like a junkyard dog. "And what," Tommy mumbled, brain only half online, "tell him sorry, would've called, too busy boning you?" He'd been ignoring everybody for days now, anyway. He missed all their friends, of _course_ he missed them. But they'd reminded him too much of Adam. And he'd missed Adam more.

"He's just worried." The heavy note in Adam's tone made Tommy open his eyes. They hadn't really figured out, or honestly done much talking about what to do with the whole not-really-dead thing. The world was still in the middle of saying goodbye in a blaze of glitter and glam, and the last thing either of them wanted was to freak the nation out post-mortem-Elvis style. Sure, the idea was hilarious, but not the potential of a candle-carrying crazy mob camping out on Adam's front step. Tommy figured there'd be way less alien paraphernalia, though. More voodoo dolls. How fucking crazily apt was that?

"I'll like, text him later," Tommy said, muffled as he pushed his face into Adam's belly. He wriggled his tongue in through a gap between the buttons of Adam's shirt to lick at his belly button, which never failed to make Adam laugh or groan, depending. All he got this time was a slightly lopsided frown. Belatedly, he realised Adam had cooled off.

"Sorry," Adam said, with eyes like a kicked puppy. As if it was his fucking fault. Even when Tommy had viciously heaped the blame on him for working himself to death, Tommy didn't actually _mean_ it.

"Whatever." Tommy picked at the band-aids Adam had forcibly wrapped half his fucking hand up in. "I'll warm you up, baby," he said, wiggling his eyebrows, lifting his arm to poke his cut finger between Adam's lips. "Suck on that."

Adam's mumble sounded sort of like, "You're horrible," but he didn't try spitting Tommy's finger out again, not like he had when they'd first settled on the couch, scowling and flailing and generally being a total idiot about a little bit of bloodsucking. For a guy with such a hard-on for vampires, he was pretty fucking squeamish with the whole deal.

With a show of reluctance that was total fucking bullshit, Adam nibbled on the side of Tommy's finger. "Still not eating you," he said, and Tommy grinned, said, "Bitch, you know how fucking good I'd taste," and by then Adam was too busy licking and moaning to toss off a comeback. And hey, Tommy thought, worming a hand inside his still-unbuttoned jeans, if Adam's mouth was going to be occupied up there for awhile, there was no good reason why he couldn't jack off down here.

*

That wasn't the end of Adam's _I might fucking eat you_ shtick, either, and it only took another day or two for Adam's restlessness with being cooped up to hit a peak where, if they kept going at the pace they were, Tommy was going to run out of blood. Or start coming dry, one or the other. While Adam did weird domestic shit, like washing the sheets for the billionth time, Tommy hit up Google for everything it knew about how to un-zombify a zombie. Unsurprisingly, it turned out to be a lot, and he spent the next two days solid drowning in information overload.

Sometime around noon on the second he surfaced to Adam leaning on his shoulders. "Index cards, wow," Adam said. "I'm impressed."

"This is serious fucking business," Tommy growled, clicking back through his tabs to check a user name. Whoever it was ranting up a storm on _moneyforyourmummy.net_ , Tommy had seen the name several times before. Unlike most users, who as far as Tommy was concerned were socially inept prepubescents, this one seemed to actually know shit. His private messages on previous sites had gone ignored, but the one thing Tommy had learned without a fucking doubt in life was giving up never got him anything. He quickly typed up another, double-checked it for creepy stalker crazy (there wasn't much he could do about the _hey, so my boyfriend's a zombie_ kind) and added in his email before sending it off. "You're fucking heavy."

"Sorry," Adam said, distractedly nuzzling at his ear, and oh. Right. Time to feed the zombie.

Ever since the kitchen incident, Adam had been sort of like an attention-starved puppy, becoming more and more clingy the closer it got to his blood-fix wearing off. And maybe he was some weird zombie-vampire hybrid, because it wasn't like Tommy actually minded feeding him. After the third time, when he'd gotten tired of his finger aching and opened a fresh wound just below the inside of his elbow for Adam to suck on, it got hot. Hotter. Like, really hot, bust-his-fucking-fly-open hot.

But he was on the cusp of something here, he could fucking feel it. He picked absently at the corner of his bandage, then just stuck his arm out for Adam to deal with. When Adam didn't do anything, he wiggled it irritably. "C'mon, hurry up."

"Don't act so thrilled," Adam muttered.

"Don't fucking even," Tommy snapped, spinning around to hook his foot around Adam's ankle before Adam could go sulk in a corner. "This was your fucking idea, okay? I was totally all for donating a fucking limb, but you fucking vetoed that, so just suck it up. This shit is fucking hard. My fucking eyeballs are going to shrivel up and fall out of my motherfucking head."

Before Adam had a chance to do much more than gape at him, Tommy's email pinged. His heart launched itself into his throat.

*

"I seriously fucking appreciate it," Tommy said, obsessively hitting _Get Mail_ and ready to cut a fucking bitch if Thunderbird didn't cough up the goods soon. Maybe it'd be faster if he killed Skype, but he didn't want to chance it. "You have no fucking idea."

"Hey, no problem," call-me-Laina said, shrugging. "You were kinda determined, like an adorable little Shih Tzu barking up every single tree on the internet. You'd have found it eventually."

"Yeah, but, yeah," Tommy said, biting back a growl, because what the _fuck_ was up with his fucking email, "maybe, but my birthday is like, _tomorrow_ , and it would've fucking killed him to wait another whole year, and fuck, are you sure you sent it?"

One of Laina's purple eyebrows shot up. "He's the impatient one, right." She carefully hadn't said Adam's name once, and even though Tommy hadn't told her who they were and Adam had kept well out of camera range, she had to know. She'd seemed to know even before the Skype call, thinking it a big risk for Tommy to agree to take it, but fuck it, what the hell did Tommy have to lose now?

"Fucking finally," Tommy said, opening her email. He read through it twice, then a third time, and couldn't stop, "Fuck, gross," from flying out of his mouth, awed and kind of impressed.

Laina pasted on a theatrically dreamy smile and sighed. "True fucking love."

"It works though, right? Like, you know it works." Tommy gnawed on his thumbnail. He really needed this to work. Blood wouldn't be enough for Adam forever, and god damn it, he wanted more, too. Even life with Adam Lambert was a little less shiny without a good dicking every now and then.

The edges of Laina's smile dimmed. "It's not really about the ritual, it's about you. You're the ones who have to work, honey. You've got to _make_ it work."

Tommy looked up, his gaze landing on Adam's worried face. He thought about the worst that could happen, like, the absolute worst thing possible, from universes imploding to waking up as a grub seconds before becoming breakfast for a ravenous crow. He'd already lived through it once. If he had to do it again, it would probably kill him, but what the fuck ever. There really were some things worse than death.

*

"C'mon," Adam says, arms raised to lift Tommy down into the grave with him.

"When the fuck did California get so fucking cold," Tommy bitches, a lame attempt at covering up the fact that he totally loves how easily Adam takes his weight. He maybe clings a little on the way down, cool sweet slide of skin on skin, and shivers, imagines what it'll be like to bask in Adam's warmth again. He stands with his legs spread as Adam lies down, then awkwardly follows. Coffins are seriously not made for this double occupancy shit. He ends up straddling Adam's hips with a hand cupped over his junk, trying to convince his nuts to not crawl back up into his body out of self-defence, Adam's hands resting lightly on his thighs.

"So, uh," Adam says, like he wants to take charge here the same as he always does, and how Tommy is usually pretty happy to go along with, but a week as the walking dead has sort of fucked with his sense of self. "What's first?"

Tommy's had a good five hours to come up with a game plan, though. He tugs the bandage off his arm and sucks at the angry red slice on it, softening up the beginnings of new skin to make it bleed again. The angle's weird when he holds it above Adam's chest, squeezing to get more than a few drops of blood spattered onto Adam's skin. This probably would've been easier if he'd gone for a fresh wound instead, but something about using the one he'd made to keep Adam whole feels right. He's not about to argue with his gut feeling right about now, either.

Adam eyes the blood hungrily, his fingers twitching. He stays still, though, and Tommy leans down to reward him with a quick kiss before bringing his bleeding arm up between them, telling him, "The rest's for you."

Adam groans, mouth already open to catch a droplet, chasing it to the source. His tongue drags along Tommy's arm, mouth fastening over the wound, and he looks so dazed, so lust-drunk, that maybe it would still be hot even if Tommy didn't know what it was doing for him. Tommy had already been into the whole blood-sharing thing in a vague sort of way, the intimacy of it catching on when he'd first read about it, and the idea that he's becoming a part of Adam through it now appeals to a dark corner of his brain he doesn't really want to examine in the bright light of day, or apparently even in an open grave ten minutes to midnight. Some dick psychologist somewhere probably has a really unflattering term for it. All he really needs to know about it is that it feels good.

He spits into palm, then onto Adam's chest right in the middle of the red smear. Two ingredients down, two to go--blood and spit, tears and come, all willingly spilled onto his true love's silent heart before the first hour of his birth day. It sounds like a total crock. Some x-rated Disney bullshit. But Tommy's chosen to believe it straight down his very core, because he needs to believe it.

Wrapping his hand around his half-hard cock, he gives it a couple of rough tugs. He usually doesn't like it so hard straight out of the gate, but they're on a time limit here and it's messing with his head. He doesn't even realise it's not really doing the job until Adam's hand covers his, taking over, slowing it down.

"Easy, sweetheart," Adam says, totally unnecessarily, but Tommy lets him get away with it. For most of his life, Tommy's been good at the give and take. With Adam, it'd been so easy, even when it wasn't.

Relaxing into the soft stroke of Adam's hands isn't ever the hardest thing to do, anyway, and while all he wants is to sink down, slide his tongue into Adam's mouth and lose himself in the pleasure, he can't. The annoying white-rabbit voice in the back of his brain won't fucking shut up. He's never felt time weigh down on him like this before, airy and insubstantial and slipping through his fingers like the dreams he'd had the first night alone in Adam's house. So fucking alone.

He grabs onto that feeling, grinds it in his head like salt in an open wound. The best he's got is a choked noise of pain, though, and that's not enough. He curls his hand into a fist and slams it into the raw edge of the coffin. Shock jolts up his spine, hot and razor-wired, but it's still no good. He spent the last two fucking weeks crying his goddamn eyes out. Now, when he needs the tears the most, they won't fucking come.

"Let me do this," Adam says, and Tommy opens his eyes, not sure when he'd squeezed them shut. There's a smile on Adam's face, shaky at the corners but there, real. He switches to a solid overhand grip, twisting and tugging, his other hand skimming over Tommy's thighs, his stomach, playing with his balls. A tiny shiver worms its way into Tommy's belly, then another, sinking deeper. He breathes out slowly. Honest to fucking Jesus, sex should not be this much work. This is seriously the last time he's going to bring a potential panic attack to bed.

Adam says, "That's it, baby," low and soothing, hint of a purr around the edges of his voice, "give it up for me, you're good at that. So good at giving me what I want, making me want it more," and when he lifts his hand for Tommy to spit in again, brings it back down slick and warm, Tommy's whole body jerks.

Orgasm rises up like a slow drunk, pleasure building in his veins like body shots on a hot summer night, tequila sweat-salt tingle, until it hits saturation point and spills up, over, out on a sharp hiss of breath. It's so good, so hazy and softly real, he forgets how to breathe for a moment. In the pounding silence inside his head, he'd fucking swear there were whole fucking continents gone breathless right along with him.

He breaks then, head and shoulders bowed, a weak sliver of noise burbling up the back of his throat as tears fucking finally begin to fall. If this doesn't work, if Adam stays whatever the hell he is, they'll figure it out, he knows they will, but it won't ever be the same. And that's really what Tommy's been mourning since Adam came back, the loss of the filthy, fucking divine thing they had, who they were and what they wanted right out there in everyone's faces, no apologies, no going back, whole nations loving it, hating it, and the scream of the crowd echoing endlessly in Tommy's head, the only thing in the world loud enough to match the way his heart screamed, joyous and wild, for Adam.

"Tommy," Adam says, thumb at Tommy's lips, fingers hooked beneath his jaw to pull him down, "Tommy, you have to-"

Tommy says, "I know," thick and stuffy, his head aching. He scrubs a hand roughly over his face, his eyes blurry, burning, and scoots down to drag his tongue through the mess on Adam's chest. Some detached part of his brain tells him it's fucking disgusting, slimy and salty and cold, and his stomach heaves as he tries to swallow. Clamping his mouth shut, he forces it down, panting shallowly as he comes back for more, holding it on his tongue to push it into Adam's mouth on a slow kiss. By the time he does the whole thing once more, a mouthful for him, a mouthful for Adam, and then a third, final round, the fucking tears have started up again. The agony in his head's crawled down his spine, crept into his chest, filling it with a great gaping ache that feels like dying.

When the third kiss breaks, he gives Adam a wavering smile and gratefully passes the fuck out.

*

Tommy wakes up wrung out, exhausted, and really seriously fucking hoping he's not coming down from the worst best trip in the history of the universe. If there's anybody up there staring holes in the back of his head, he's really not sure how he's going to explain cuddling Adam's corpse in a way that doesn't involve copious amounts of drugs a lot fucking stronger than weed.

He's still working his way up to cracking open an eyelid when Adam says, "Morning, sunshine."

The thing Tommy's cuddling turns out to be a pillow in Adam's big bed, and Tommy scrubs at his eyes, floundering his way through the heap of blankets to roll over and sit up. He blinks at the sunlight streaming in through the windows, the jumble of clothes near the foot of the bed, the steaming mug of coffee Adam's holding in one hand.

Grunting, Tommy flails feebly at the coffee. Adam hands it over with a fond quirk of a smile, risking life and limb to ruffle his hair while he gulps sweet Italian-roast life.

Right about then reality starts knocking again, pissed at him for slamming the door in its face thirty seconds ago if the way it barrels into him now is anything to go by. He nearly drops the mug, which is a really fucking wussy thing to do, and maybe he would be slightly more concerned about volcanic coffee dumped all over his junk if he wasn't busy staring at Adam's face.

He'd thought Adam had come back a little different, a little less, and wrote it all off as his stupid head playing tricks on him. Looking up at Adam now, Adam's blue eyes bright, his smile even brighter, his whole body in the way it curves his mouth, Tommy knows it wasn't his imagination. It's real now. This is real.

Somehow, Tommy fumbles the mug onto the bedside table before flinging himself into Adam's arms. His aim's off, because seriously, even for the end of the world he can't change the fact that he's so not a morning person, but Adam meets him halfway, always has, one knee braced on the bed. For fuck's sake, Adam had met him halfway in fucking _death_.

"Baby," Adam says, "I missed you too, so fucking much," his heartbeat loud and steady, fucking beautiful echoing down deep in Tommy's chest.


End file.
